


Is It Terrifying? (A Death In 3 Acts)

by nic_takes_Ls (nic_L)



Category: DreamSMP, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: :(, :D, Angst, Assisted Suicide, Blood, Canonical Character Death, Chekhov's Gun, Dadza, Deathbed phenomena, Gen, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Nov 16 Canon, Panic Attacks, References to SMPEarth, Stabbing, Suicide, Talking to an old friend, Technically?, Traitor Wilbur Soot, Watch out for that, Wilbur Soot-centric, no beta we die like FUCKIGN WILBUR SOOT I GUESS, with a fuckin sword, with a sword, yea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27833047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nic_L/pseuds/nic_takes_Ls
Summary: “I’ll be back in a moment, guys.”Wilbur turns away, back to everyone he had at least once known, used to have trusted, always still loved.He turns, knowing he’s going around the side of the cliff that gives the best view of L’Manberg. The cliff in which his miniature hell heaven resting place button room lays.Finally opening his eyes once more, he whispers, “Chekhov’s gun.”Behind him, the river seems to trickle and hum and sing. The stone wall- the lines are visible where it’s been erected and taken down and built and broken and hidden once more. It sits before him and waits.His feet shift teeter-totter. Wilbur takes a deep breath, stands back.It’s time. Isn’t it?His toes untouch the grass, the last time, he tries not to tell himself. He fails. He steps onto the stone and tears down the stone wall with a pick, quickly discarded and left for abandon on the floor.——————————|“Is it-” Phil stutters. “Is it terrifying?”“Dying?” Wilbur’s voice is soft.“Dying.”He breathes in the warm, smokey air. It’s strangely sweet on his lips. “No. I don’t think so.”
Relationships: Charlie Soot & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Philza Minecraft
Comments: 28
Kudos: 120





	1. Act 1: The Resignation: The View From Halfway Down

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The View from Halfway Down](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/720376) by Bojack Horseman. 



Wilbur smiles at his friends. They’re so happy, lips pulled so wide into grins and eyes lidded with the purple of sleepless nights now glittering. Tubbo is laughing to himself on that podium, bringing his hands up as if to wipe away incoming tears, Tommy already charging up the steps to meet him.

He casts a final glance at everyone individually. Every member is gunpowder-dusted, some new scar on everyone’s skin, Niki has a chunk of her hair burnt and Eret takes off his busted helmet.

Fundy is turning to Quackity with wide arms, and Eret reaches over and pulls them both into an adrenaline-buzzed embrace.

Techno hangs back with the Badlands members, and even from here it’s visible that Sam is pulling Bad into a gripping hug, Skeppy and Ant lowering their weapons and shoulders.

Techno meets Wilbur’s eyes, flint upon steel, and Wilbur’s smile turns to ice. He turns and gazes once more at the gold of Tommy’s hair, the shape of Tubbo’s smile and the constantly-bewildered expression of Quackity.

Niki’s laugh, warm and sunny and honey-like, a balm on his hardened heart.

Fundy’s face.

Wilbur traces every line of his- his son’s perfect face, burning it into the back of his eyelids.

He reaches up and tugs his beanie more securely over his head.

Waves to catch Eret’s attention and says in a quiet, soft tone.

“I’ll be back in a moment, guys.”

Wilbur turns away, back to everyone he had at least once known, used to have trusted, always still loved.

His absence is unmarked, a perfect non-interference in the post-victory celebrations. They’re happy without him there. They will be happier without him there.

Wilbur begins the walk from the podium’s wings and around the sides, slipping through a hole in the fence.

He makes sure to take in every colour, imprinting the shades of vibrancy in his head for- forever, he hopes.

Wilbur takes each step slow and yet precise and oh so very determined. The quiet grows as he leaves the crowd and Manberg- _ L _ ’Manberg,  ~~ finally, once again, never to be- ~~ behind. Grass has never looked as green as it is now.    
  
  
Wilbur lifts one leg over a fence and then the other, and gives one last glance at the landscape behind him. 

  
  
A weak breeze whispers nothing but pushes his fringe into his face. He lets it, even if his own brown curls occlude his vision. 

  
  
He turns away and continues walking.    
  
  
Wilbur knows this path, knows the land under his feet like it’s his own face in a mirror- it’s tired and ragged, but he can still map it out.   
  
  
He closes his eyes and walks.    
  
  
Grass crushes under his boots, the edge of his frayed coat whispers against the ground and he knows he’s walking past the small potato farm that lays near the river.    
  
  
He turns, knowing he’s going around the side of the cliff that gives the best view of L’Manberg. The cliff in which his miniature  ~~ hell heaven resting place ~~ button room lays.    
  
  
Finally opening his eyes once more, he whispers, “Chekhov’s gun.”   
  
  
Behind him, the river seems to trickle and hum and sing. The stone wall- the lines are visible where it’s been erected and taken down and built and broken and hidden once more. It sits before him and waits.    
  
  
His feet shift teeter-totter. Wilbur takes a deep breath, stands back.   
  
  
It’s time. Isn’t it?   
  
  
His toes untouch the grass,  ~~ the last time ~~ he tries not to tell himself. He fails. He steps onto the stone and tears down the stone wall with a pick, quickly discarded and left for abandon on the floor.    
  
  
Wilbur descends down the hall, a ghastly thing of stone and dark and cold, especially as he places cobble behind him- a door. Now closed.    
  
  
He closes his eyes once more, long dark lashes brushing his cheeks and walks, taking every step as if it’s his last, which they very well are.    
  
  
Soon, Wilbur’s fire bound.    
  
  
He thinks he’s nearing halfway down the hall. His eyes, once locked shut, now peek, a sliver of honeyed brown around his wide pupils, to see- The view from halfway down.    
  
  
Wilbur closes his eyes again in an instant, chest starting to heave as he remembers a little wind, the summer sun, that river rich and regal, and how long ago,  more blind, more happy, he felt such a calm that knew no equal.   


  
His breath shudders in his throat as he walks faster now, down that long long hall, feet almost numb and feeling as if he’s floating- flying- The memories flash vividly before his eyes and much clearer than in Pogtopia.    
  
  
He’d be okay, Wilbur thinks, if he weren’t now halfway down.    
  
  
If he were dumber, Wilbur would thrash and jolt away from his own plot, his own country, his own unforgivable gravity, but nothing can slow this drop.    
  
  
He wishes his toes would touch the grass again.    
  
  
He continues walking forwards.   
  
  
His mind wails and he lets out a sob, and blinding panic buzzes in his ears, silencing the sound of his own mourning wails.   
  
  
Before he stepped in this hall, before he was exiled to a clawed out hollow underground, before he let his own paranoia get the best of him, Wilbur should’ve seen the view from halfway down.    
  
  
He really should’ve thought about it.   
  
  
Wishes that he’d known.    
  
  
Wilbur is on his knees, when the feeling finally returns to his legs, and he feels the hard cruel stone digging into his legs. His breath does not shake, and he kneels before the entrance to the room.    
  
  
The button glitters before him, a chair and carved words and more stone.   
  
  
He does not fight any longer.    
  
  
Wilbur stands, and approaches his fate.   
  



	2. Act 2: The Sword: Is It Terrifying?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) this is the main angsty part lmao
> 
> a lot of dialogue lifted from THAT scene in bojack horseman (which i actually havent watched only that clip i linked)

Wilbur lets out a ragged sigh, mouth open and heaving.    
  
  
Philza’s shaking grip on the sword handle adjusts. He too, takes a breath, and Wilbur can hear it rattle.    
  
  
Wilbur laughs, weak and woozy, and Philza- Phil, now, grabs his shoulders and holds him upright.    
  
  
“Wilbur- I-  _ Wilbur _ -”    
  
  
The sword in his gut is not felt, but Wilbur’s been numb ever since he’s stepped into this room. He tucks his head in Phil’s neck and a whimper escapes his mouth. He shushes Phil.   
  
  
“Wilbur.”   
  
  
Phil adjusts Wilbur’s stance, leans back to see his face.   
  
  
Wilbur doesn’t know what he sees there, but imagines the picture he must make- with soot smeared over his eyelids in an impression of eyeshadow, the ashes there must be dotted across his cheeks like freckles, and small fresh scars from rubble, gently leaking.    
  
  
His thankful eyes, peace relaxing the crease in his brow, and the relieved smile curving his lips.    
  
  
Phil must see it, because his eyelids flutter but he simply drags Wilbur back into his arms.   
  
  
They stay, silent, a slow ooze of blood onto the ground and their knees, fireworks in the distance and an ash-heavy sun warming their skin.    
  
  
Wilbur can feel his body slowing, the trembling in his extremities slowing, an end calling near. But not yet.   
  
  
“Is it-” Phil stutters. “Is it terrifying?”   
  
  
“Dying?” Wilbur’s voice is soft.   
  
  
“Dying.”   
  
  
He breathes in the warm, smokey air. It’s strangely sweet on his lips. “No. I don’t think so.”   
  
  
Phil’s arms tighten around his chest, a mind-blurring pain from the movement, but Wilbur continues.    
  
  
“It’s the way it is, you know. Everything must come to an end. The drip-”   
  
  
Wilbur takes in another breath and a sudden  _ gush _ of blood runs down his chest and splatters onto the floor. Phil doesn’t jerk away.    
  
  
“-Finally stops. So do nations. So do friendships. So does love, right?”    
  
  
Phil brings a hand to Wilbur’s head- his fingers twist in his hair gently, a touch like Wilbur hasn’t felt in years.    
  
  
“I love you. You know that, right?” The words are whispered in Wilbur’s ears so softly.   
  
  
“Oh.” His voice is stunned and small.   
  
  
The two sit on the stone floor, rubble below their perch and fire and smoke dying down, red sticky liquid soaking the fabric of Phil’s robe and where they touch.   
  
  
Wilbur’s head begins blurring once more, and Phil must feel it too, because he moves his hand to the sword’s handle, blade still locked in his chest, and his knuckles turn white with his grip.   
  
  
“I’ll- I’ll-”   
  


Phil is stuttering, trembling where Wilbur feels their chests pressed together, and he finally gets the words out.   
  
  
“See you on the other side.”   
  
  
Wilbur opens his eyes once more, blinks ever so slowly, and a soft apologetic smile curves his lips.   
  
  
“Oh, Phil- Dad. There is no other side. This is it.”   
  
  
Phil lets out a sob and his face turns wrecked as Wilbur closes his eyes for the last time, slipping into lucidity, and pulls a crimson painted blade from his son’s chest.   
  



	3. Act 3: The Fade Away: How Was Your Day?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again most dialogue lifted from that clip
> 
> yell at me for being an angst-craving emo mess in the comment pls

Wilbur is running through his wood house in Newfoundland, somehow, but he doesn’t bother to think how. His chest hurts, and everything is a bit hazy. He doesn’t want to be alone.   
  
  
He walks to the window and his eyes flicker to the green landscape outside, flowers twinkling under the moonlight, but a dark shape- an oozing gush of tar- traces itself around the window panel.    
  
  
Wilbur nearly trips over his own feet as he stumbles from the window, breath catching and the center of his gut aching.   
  
  
He lifts his wrist and his communicator lights up; the first name on the list is tapped.   
  
  
It rings and Wilbur’s eyes flicker to another pool of inky liquid crawling across the floor to him. He backtracks and shouts desperately.   
  
  
“Are you there? Charlie! I need you!“   
  
  
A crackle hums over the communicator.  
  


“Wilbur?”   
  
  
“Charlie! Thank God! Thank God, Charlie. Okay, Charlie. Charlie, you're gonna save me, right? I called you and you're coming to get me?”   
  
  
Another twinge strikes Wilbur in his stomach and he nearly doubles over.    
  
  
“Wilbur, why did you call me? I’m in a different server. SMPEarth is closed. I can't save you.”   
  
  
Wilbur blinks.   
  


“I exploded L’Manberg.”  
  


“Right.”  
  


“I asked Phil to kill me.”   
  
  
The void in his chest, that roaring center of pain and cold and numb makes more sense now.  
  


“Yeah.”  
  


The shadow of another one of those looming tendrils of liquid void looms behind Wilbur. He walks away, slower now. He knows what they mean now.  
  


A buzz of static over the communicator announces Charlie’s next words.   
  
  
“It's too late. What's done is done.”  
  


“I- I know.”  
  


“There's nothing I can do, Wilbur. I'm not real. None of this is.”  
  


“So, what do I do now?”    
  
  
His voice breaks, but it’s calm.   
  
  
“Wilbur, it doesn't matter,” Charlie soothes. It’s nice to have his voice again, familiar in the way of an old favourite song.   
  
  
Wilbur walks back to the window, noticing a shadow grow over his chest.   
  


“Well, if it doesn't matter, can I stay on voice call with you at least?”    
  
  
“Okay.”   
  
  
Wilbur looks at the pale mirage of a moon, grey and watching, letting stars twinkle when it shines.  
  


“How was your day?” He asks.   
  
  
Charlie almost lets out a laugh.    
  
  
“Good.”   
  
  
If Wilbur were to look down, he’d see the black  ~~ ink void shadows onyx starless night sky ~~ spread from the hole in his chest to his arms and prepare to swallow him whole.    
  
  
He’s closed his eyes.  
  


“Yeah?”   
  
  
“Yeah.” Charlie answers. “My day was good.”

**Author's Note:**

> This all started because of THIS https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G0vMiMXzrCw PMV FUCK
> 
> but then i wanted to see where the audio came from and-
> 
> FUCK FUCK UFKC MINI-MENTAL BREAKDOWN but it was cathartic and it was rad and i'm good!! I JUST WROTE THIS THOUGH
> 
> So now we have angst :)


End file.
